Lost Causes
by Ladyinshiningarmour
Summary: Captain Rhett Butler had always been a master of deceit; except when it came to her. Movie-verse.


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Lost Causes**

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Captain Rhett Butler had always been a master of deceit.

He'd fooled them all—from the plantation workers in the fields, to the prison wardens and all the rest in between; not forgetting, of course, the ladies hailing from a spectrum of backgrounds.

Needless to say, the vast fortune helped, as did the smooth charm he'd skilfully mastered to perfection.

Yet amidst the masquerading, he had always managed to abide by a twisted code of honour. It was ironic, really, he often mused—as if trickery were any good to begin with—yet, Rhett always swore to himself that whatever he did, he fought on the side of the defeated. As he'd told her that night, so long ago, he was inexplicably drawn to lost causes.

Yes, he thought sardonically to himself, that git Ashley Wilkes was not the only fool to constantly ponder the complexity of honour. The difference lay in the fact that it was an unspoken code of conduct for Rhett. For Wilkes, it had morphed many years before into a stretch of barbed wire restraining him from proving unfaithful to his Melanie; for Rhett knew without a doubt that physical conduct aside, Ashley Wilkes had long succumbed to _her_ charms.

And who wouldn't, he mused bitterly, with a pang of jealousy and longing he detested himself for. She'd practically thrown herself at him from the start. He should have stayed away since that afternoon he'd overheard her profession of love to _him_. But he hadn't—he was drawn to lost causes; and some part in him had recognised and staked claim to the lost cause in the passionate, hot-headed spitfire.

At first, he found her antics amusing—the way she'd always found a means to get what she wanted, they way she charmed, cajoled and flirted her way through society, ignoring the jibes of those who saw through her facade. They were alike like that; he with women, and she with the men. He had watched in slight amusement at first, as she pined after _dear Ashley_, even as his fiancée (who later became his wife) stood by and loved her like a sister. He'd found cynical humour in her twisted attempt at revenge through marrying someone she cared not for to incite jealousy.

Then the war struck, and he never though he would see her again, but he did.

She had been recently widowed, yet she had turned up at the ball, shocking the whole of the Southern society. And he'd been drawn to her, as always—a lost cause she still remained, her actions never failing to amuse him. She had been so easy to please, a bonnet or some gift easily brought a smile to her face; and far from disgusting him, her naïve materialism had struck something within him—something which incited an overpowering need in him to protect her and bring joy to her being.

He should have realised then, that Scarlett O'Hara had somehow wedged herself into his heart.

The night the Yankees arrived at the town, he'd expected her to have long fled. He'd expected to be captured, so he'd spent his last night of freedom doing what he did best, with the obligatory pint and gaggle of women. So it was a surprise when Prissy arrived at the window, hollering for aid on behalf of her; and an even greater surprise to find that she'd stayed for the pregnant Melly—he never thought that she had had a single unselfish bone in her proud, stubborn self. Was it possible—had the war changed her? Matured her?

Later on, as he gathered her sobbing, shivering body to himself, he realised that while it had, Scarlett O'Hara was still, in a sense, a child yearning for gentle approval and comfort. And he realised that _he_ wanted to be the one to take on that role. But as he lead her across the terrain in the dead of the night towards her beloved Tara, passing the men, half-dead on their feet, and knowing that they would be the ones fighting in the futile battle for the South; he suddenly felt a need to fight. It was, after all, a lost cause, as he'd explained to her, staring into her terrified eyes.

It was only when she'd visited him in prison in an attempt to cajole the three hundred dollars from him for Tara that he'd realised how much he had missed her presence in his life. He didn't mind it really, his money for her entertaining presence; he'd figured by then that since she was in need of money (which he had in abundance), he'd offer to remain her source of financial provision to keep her within his social life. What he didn't count on was how desperate her need for that sum was, for by the time he'd managed to find her after being released again, she had gotten herself married—again—to someone she did not care a whit for. Although this time round, he had noted in slight irritation, she did care for the man's money.

When he found Kennedy dead, he knew, then; despite his lifelong proclamation that he wasn't 'the marrying kind', he would marry her; if only to keep her by his side. And then perhaps—perhaps, she could come to love him as irrevocably as he realised he did.

Oh, what foolish hope he held then.

He'd known of her longing for her _dear Ashley_, but she'd claimed fondness for him, had she not? And she was honest enough to admit to his wealth's lure.

And he'd been naïve enough to believe in his self-deluded fantasy.

Rhett knew himself to be patient, and he had willingly humoured her. Indeed, it always brought him joy to see the slow upward tilt of her lips and the way her eyes would light up in excitement and utter joy upon being gifted with some bauble or another—yes, he had been happy spoiling her, and would gladly continue to do so; except as the months passed, the senseless longing never left her eyes whenever her _dear Ashley _entered the room.

Even after dear, sweet Bonnie was born, the look never faded.

And it broke his heart. His damned, foolish, human heart.

Bonnie put it back together enough for him to go on, but half his heart was gone; for he realised he had never had it all along—it had always been _hers_.

He had taken Bonnie to London in hopes of building immunity against her, but when he returned upon Bonnie's request, he found himself pathetically aching for her affection all over again.

But Captain Rhett Butler was a master of deceit, and he was proud of the way he masked it all with a mocking greeting for her—until she told him of her baby—theirs. And then he couldn't help the painful love that clawed at his chest even as she glared proudly at him, retorting in response to an insult meant to shield the strong urge he had to take her into his arms and keep her there forever.

The next second, within a few more spiteful exchanges, she was tumbling down the long flight of stairs, her startled yelp jolting him into the reality of his actions: he had pushed her in the heat of their quarrel—her and their child. Scarlett had fallen and was unconscious—what hope had their unborn child?

That day, his mask broke.

* * *

Captain Rhett Butler had always been a master of deceit.

But there had always been three people in the world who would never be fooled by him; and Belle had been the very first person he'd discovered who could look past his charms and suave mannerisms. Before stepping foot into Twelve Oaks, before _her_, Belle had always been his source of comfort in both the mental and physical senses. He'd felt nothing other than a slight affection for Belle, of course—as he did for all others of her gender, until _her_—but what he had with Belle was a deep, strong camaraderie and trust; and he had, on more than one occasion, seeked her accommodation for an alibi in several of his emergency escapes. For that relationship, he was glad.

The second person who'd managed to visually permeate the carefully constructed fortress he had erected was, ironically enough, _dear Ashley_'s wife. Relation alone to _him_ would have given Rhett reason enough to bear distaste for her, had she been anyone other than herself. As it was, Melanie Wilkes was a sweet, kind and wise woman who uttered not a bad word against anyone, and he respected and loved her as he would a mother-figure. It was dear Melly who took _her_ under her wing when most shunned her; who loved her and treated her kindly even as credible rumours spoke of her inappropriate and immoral behaviour—who forgave her and showered her with tender care since they were introduced at Twelve Oaks. Rhett had always admired Melanie Wilkes' quiet strength and ability to reach out to everyone, and held her gentle suggestions in the highest regard.

Yet the only matter in which he doubted her opinion turned out (ironically) to be the sole catalyst of his _foolish_ downfall.

Had Melly not told him to be patient with _her_—that _she_ loved him, but merely did not see it?

He'd listened at first, and had continued to hope even as _she_ had disappointed him with her underhanded ploys to place herself within close proximity of her _darling Ashley_. (How _could_ Melly not have detected her less-than-pure intentions?) Yet time and time again, his sister-in-law had patiently encouraged him with what he had come to indentify as a misplaced faith on her part and false hope on his.

No, she had never loved him. Which was why he had left the house immediately after Melly's passing even as she sobbed her proclamation of 'love' for him—a lie; for was she even capable of such a selfless state of emotional turmoil?

As he paused in the doorway of the house, he had almost succumbed to the temptation of drawing her trembling body to his. Except he didn't want any more heartbreak—and she was the root cause of it. And so he had uttered those cold, painful words to her—to break her heart in hopes that she would stay away forever; so that his would not be damaged any further.

'_Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.'_

In retrospect, his choice of words had been unconsciously voiced in strategic impulse, for he had had one more person yet to convince—himself.

* * *

Captain Rhett Butler had always been a master of deceit. He'd fooled hundreds of people, including himself, on countless occasions.

Yet, for the unfailing smooth gentlemanly charm and all that his unending wealth could buy, never once had he succeeded in fooling himself when it came to _her; _and he knew it as clearly as he felt the echoing remnants of their crumbling, pathetic marriage—he'd given his heart and his love, and did most certainly give a hell lot of a damn for Scarlett O'Hara.

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A/N: (This was based on the movie starring Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable.) Was it too unrealistic? It was how my romanticised brain willed Rhett to be, though. Do inform me of grammatical/factual errors, by the way--I understand how annoying they may be. Comments are greatly appreciated!**


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